


I was baking (while you were sleeping)

by doomed_spectacles



Series: Good Omens Lockdown Ficlets [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Baking, Baking while pining, Fluff, Good Omens Lockdown, Introspection, Letters, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), expressing love through baked goods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: While Crowley sleeps, Aziraphale bakes.Or,The curious case of the pineapple upside-down cake and the angel who lost his marbles in lockdown.Aziraphale made a displeased face. He added a short note to the box, but didn’t bother signing his name to it. Aziraphale folded the flaps, then banished the medium-sized box to Crowley’s living room. It would land somewhere in the vicinity of Crowley’s leather sofa, if his aim was right. Aziraphale was glad to be rid of it. The loaf was Crowley’s responsibility now."I’m not a fan of banana bread. Nuts, no nuts, it makes no difference."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Lockdown Ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791961
Comments: 17
Kudos: 86
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics, Verb Roulette





	I was baking (while you were sleeping)

**Author's Note:**

> For the verb roulette game on the GO-events server. Mine was “to bake.”
> 
> This is a companion piece to the lockdown ficlet located here. It can stand on its own but I’d gently suggest reading that one in tandem with this. Before, after, dealer's choice.
> 
> Thanks to @UserIsMe for the second set of eyes!

"Goodnight, angel."

Aziraphale set the Bakelite receiver down gently. He sat back in his chair. It let out a small groan under his familiar weight.

The air in his home smelled both old and new. A musty scent of old books had followed him for centuries. Now the old book smell mingled with the warm, slightly burnt odor of his oven. It was radiating heat into the bookshop while a torte cooled nearby. Aziraphale set his glasses on his nose and returned to the book he’d been reading before he’d called his best friend. 

The silence, instead of comforting him, felt stale.

* * *

Aziraphale wrapped a box in plain brown paper, tied with string. Inside the small box was what Americans called a cookie, and a note. 

“This is called a snick-er-doodle.  
~A.Z. Fell, Esq.  
3 May”

He smiled, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and sugar. His fingers were sticky with it. The baker’s dozen in front of him varied in size and shape, but were mostly a uniform golden color. He’d mixed the cinnamon and sugar together, dipping his finger in regularly to taste the ratio, and sprinkled it on top. The cookies had cracked in the oven, little fissures appearing as the dough spread. He’d watched them rise for 16 minutes straight, forgetting to blink.

With a snap of his fingers, the box disappeared.

* * *

“This miracle should keep this pastry fresh so you can taste it when you wake as I’m tasting it today. The cheese in this popover is absolutely delightful. I tried it several ways before settling on this one to send over.

When you wake, shall we Zoom? I understand from the chatter at the shop that it allows one to see one’s loved ones on a screen. I went to the shop, yes. Please don’t scold. Marvin told me he’s been Zooming with his relatives back home. It took several tries for him to explain, but he seemed chuffed about it, so I persevered. Technology has never been my forte, you know this. But what a word! ~Zoom!~

~A.Z. Fell, Esq.  
15 May”

He concentrated on the layout of Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale remembered the bedroom, mostly bare of furnishings but for the bed, nightstand, and a peculiar statue of a coiled snake that greeted one with its fangs reared. He aimed for the table with the snake and sent his neatly wrapped package through space.

Across London, Crowley snored. A package dropped out of nowhere, onto the floor of his bedroom. It bounced once, and the flaky crust of the popover inside it fell apart. The box had missed its mark by about three feet.

* * *

Aziraphale held the tip of his pen against his lips. Fountain pens no longer needed to be wet this way, but the motion was familiar. The pressure of the pen against his lips kept him in the moment. He listened, searching for the familiar sounds of Soho outside his bookshop bubble. For the first time in a long while, he didn't find any.

He set pen to paper. Bread was cooling on a rack nearby, wrapped in a tea towel. He planned to send this one to Crowley's kitchen, aiming for the counter between the state of the art espresso machine and the food processor with all those sharp, unnecessary blades.

“I don’t recall the first time we broke bread together. Do you? I’m not certain I even remember the first time I ate bread. These things evolve, don’t they? What was once considered bread would be inedible now. It was so hard, and left a tacky sensation in the mouth. Not sweet at all. Not like today’s yeasty, lovely things. 

My sourdough starter is happily bubbling along. I’ve named it Paul. He’s sitting on the shelf next to a collection of maps.

But the first time … I remember breaking off a portion of my loaf and handing it to you on a boat. I didn’t ever tell you, but I wondered if I would be reprimanded, afterwards. For giving supplication to the enemy. 

Where were we _going_ , Crowley? In a boat together, our bodies rocked by the whims of the sea. There must’ve been a destination. Otherwise it’d have been just a journey. All these things we’ve done. All these years we’ve spent. On a journey. But what was the destination? Am I a fool for seeking it, even in the recesses of memory?

Your hair was so long, then. I remember the wind whipping it about. It stuck to your face, wet from the spray. A few strands kept getting in your mouth and you scowled at it with such annoyance. I laughed at you and shared my bread.

~A  
4 June”

* * *

Aziraphale licked his lips.

Powdery starch covered his face and hands, and much of the table. His face felt tacky, though he wasn’t sure how ice cream had gotten on his nose. He carefully set the pink-wrapped box on the center of the table and patted the gauzy bow before moving across the shop to write at his desk.

“I’ll admit I cheated with this one. I miracled in shiratamako and I adjusted the temperature in the shop to maintain the chill. But you can’t expect me to stock such things, Crowley. I simply don’t have much use for sweet rice flour under normal circumstances! Though perhaps after the current difficulties I’ll keep at it. Should I? Shouldn’t I? An angel who bakes. Imagine that.

I’m growing bolder in my culinary explorations but no more skilled, I’m afraid.

The table in my back room is still sticky. I fear it won’t recover from the colorful indignities it has been subjected to. One uses potato starch to form the mochi casing without it sticking. And the starch gets everywhere, Crowley.  Everywhere. I performed a miracle on the rug, but may have missed a few spots.

I included strawberry and lime ice cream in the balls. I say balls, but their shape is, well, you’ll see. I know you’ll like the taste. I’m as certain of this as I’m certain the sun will rise. Do you remember when we met in Edo? We ate such delicacies, Crowley. And drank. Goodness, we drank sake till dawn, didn’t we? We watched the sunrise over the Emperor's gardens until guards chased us out. They called you a _youkai_! I'm smiling as I remember, though I recall being quite concerned at the time.

You took me to the kabuki theatre and I tried not to stare at your eyes. You wore them uncovered and it had been so long since I'd seen them. You know I'm fond of them. Don't you? You wore a red kimono with black and gold trimming. It suited you. And you knew it too, I think, by the way you walked about, slinging those hips even under so many layers of silk.

I know you'll like the mochi because I know you. Three hundred years ago, we ate daifuku and you enjoyed it. You didn’t push the plate, mostly full, back to me as you usually do. I notice these things, Crowley. You may think I don't, but I do.

-Aziraphale  
18 June"

* * *

Aziraphale made a displeased face. He added a short note to the box, but didn’t bother signing his name to it. Aziraphale folded the flaps, then banished the medium-sized box to Crowley’s living room. It would land somewhere in the vicinity of Crowley’s leather sofa, if his aim was right. Aziraphale was glad to be rid of it. The loaf was Crowley’s responsibility now.

"I’m not a fan of banana bread. Nuts, no nuts, it makes no difference."

* * *

Aziraphale smiled. His cheery yellow and pink cake was a little lopsided. He took a bite from the slice on his plate and closed his eyes. Bright, fizzy flavors popped in his mouth and he made a little satisfied noise, though no one was there to hear it.

“This cake is absurd, Crowley. Just look at the colors! And the texture! It is a gelatinous mess and I’ll be cleaning the residue off my cookware until the end of the year, surely. 

This recipe is from Mrs. Child. Did you ever meet her? Such a lively woman. But why include pineapples? From a tin! I suppose it comes down to enthusiasm. She had it in spades, dear Julia. I met her in France. Was it during the war? Perhaps after. Such a sense of delight. It made its way into everything she did. And that’s the ticket, isn’t it? The Americans became enthusiastic for pineapples, because they were new. Why not put this new fruit in a can and bake it into a cake?

That  delight, Crowley! The  wonder humans feel when encountering something new! And from it creating something newer still!

I sometimes wonder if She feels it, too. To see such joy through her creation’s eyes, such delight in the act of creating. She must, mustn’t She? If _I_ can feel it in them, and _you_ can feel it in them, _She_ must. I know you do, though you may not say so. I’ve seen you delight in their inventions. Why else would you wear that ridiculous watch?

But I’ve strayed from the subject, haven’t I? It’s this curious time, this strange sequestration. I find my mind wandering all over the past and present. The curious case of the pineapple upside down cake and the angel who lost his marbles in lockdown. Even while you sleep, know that you’re with me on this journey of the mind. I find myself writing you in when you don’t appear in the flesh. I do hope you are having pleasant dreams.

Yours,  
Aziraphale  
24 June”

Aziraphale sent the cake off to Crowley’s flat. He aimed for the room where he kept his plants, but wasn’t sure if that would be where it landed. Among the greenery, somewhere nestled in a cocoon of vines, Crowley would find a colorful box. Inside it, pineapple upside down cake.

* * *

“These biscuits came out perfectly. I’ve included a tin. I can picture the exact expression you’ll wear when you open it and see the tartan inside. I’m sure you can picture mine as I regard yours. Consider it done in advance. You’ve scowled and I’ve smiled tartly in return. Mark it off the list so we can move on with our lives.

Can we move on? Are we permitted? Who is left to permit or deny?

Paul is looking a bit listless. I’ve used him several times. But I keep him fed and he goes on. I think he needs more airflow than he’s getting on the shelf. Or perhaps less? Tending to a lump of yeast is more work than I initially bargained.

Now that I think of it, I had a tin just like this one. So this mightn’t be the first time you’ve seen it. I can’t recall what happened to the other one. If it turns up, do let me know? When you’ve done sleeping?

21 July”

* * *

He wrote a simple, short note and placed it carefully on top of an apple tart. There were only two words on this piece of paper, but he’d written them with care. He’d added a flourish to the ‘y’ and made certain the letters were aligned perfectly. 

"One year."

Aziraphale raised a glass of champagne to his lips, then hesitated. He set it back down on the table. The shop was quiet, filled with a golden afternoon stillness.

He felt old, today. An angel who hadn't changed so much as settled gradually.

Aziraphale raised his glass to no one and said, "To the world."

* * *

“These scones are of the savory variety and I wonder if you can guess which herbs I’ve baked in. 

Well? Did you guess? They’re chives and rosemary, Crowley! And furthermore, I grew the little buggers myself. Did you see that coming? In your endless slumber? No I’m sure you didn’t! Let me tell you about it.

I stopped by the shop. It’s permitted now, so I wasn’t breaking any rules. I wore a mask over my face and everything. And yes, I spread some happiness while I was about. They are trying so very hard, the poor dears. My young friend Marvin, the one who works at the shop, his partner was let go from his occupation and … well, I won’t bore you with all that. He gave me some seeds, you see.

I opened one of the windows and put the seeds in a little pot. You told me about soil and temperature and light and water but not too much. I listened, Crowley. You didn’t think I was listening, but I was. It took quite a while and well, perhaps a miracle or two, but they grew! 

I clipped a few bits off with my kitchen shears - I have kitchen shears now - and I added them to the dough as I worked it. Can you taste the flavors, Crowley? Can you tell that I worked the dough with my own hands? That something of me went into the making of it? Is this what it feels like? To create?

~Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, current Guardian of One Lump of Sourdough and Raiser of Herbs  
27 July”

* * *

“This cake is quite moist. I’m not certain it’ll keep until you wake, but I’ll try my best. It has three different kinds of milk in, you see? Hence the name. _Tres leches._ It’s delicious, if I do say so. Which I do! It’s delicious!

Many things have happened while you’ve slumbered. The world we toasted to, it’s- well. It’s the world, isn’t it? It’s theirs to make or unmake. And we go on, and it goes on. 

It’s August now, Crowley. 

-Aziraphale  
2 August”

* * *

Aziraphale set out two tumblers and filled them with ice. He remembered before he poured the bourbon that he'd be spending the evening alone. He filled his own glass and glared at the other one, but didn't have it in him to put it away.

He drank silently while condensation formed on the glass opposite his. 

"I've a glass of bourbon here. I set out two tumblers from habit before I recalled you wouldn't be joining. Your ice is glaring back at me, just as you would. Or I've gone batty in isolation.

I'm remembering something I told Uriel. It was just before the world didn't end. After ~~your last~~ ~~invitation~~ ~~entreaty~~ ~~plea~~ our last meeting on the street. I told her it was our job to keep everything going so that they could make choices. The humans. That it was making choices that made them human in the first place.

So what am I, then? An angel who made a choice? Made rather a series of choices, actually. If one believes, as I must, that the universe was created exactly as it was meant to be, then I'm meant to have had the ability to make those choices from the get-go, as were you.

This is where you interrupt, Crowley. You say, 'Why are you worrying about what you are, 'least you're not an aardvark! Let's go to dinner.'

And you're right, of course. Even as you sleep, your appearances bring me back to the world as it is. A world we chose. A world I chose.

How very pathetic it would have been to have spent all this time on Earth arguing with myself!

Underneath this note you’ll find a slice of angel’s food cake. Consider it a subtle reminder that you're not _actually_ the only immortal being on this planet.

You said _July_ , Crowley.

~You know who  
23 August"

* * *

Aziraphale pursed his lips and sent a perfectly-wrapped devil's food cake to Crowley's flat with an annoyed snap. He huffed, then realized there was no one in the shop to witness it.

The box landed on Crowley’s ridiculous throne chair with a plop.

"WAKE UP, you silly demon  
~A.Z. Fell, Esq.  
8 Sept"

* * *

When the front door bell chimed, Aziraphale said "We're closed!" out of habit, and didn't look up from his book.

"Hello Aziraphale."

"Crowley! About time," he said, very deliberately still not looking up from his book. "You overslept."

Crowley ran a hand through his hair and had the decency to look chagrined. Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, I, uh, smashed my alarm with a hammer. Anyway-"

"You smashed your-"

"Yeah, 's not important." Crowley held up a trunk. He was wearing a black cloth mask on his face. He pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead so Aziraphale could see his eyes.

Aziraphale placed the ribbon marker on his page and stood up from his desk. He took a cautious step toward Crowley.

"So, Angel-Who-Made-a-Choice," Crowley said, rocking back and forth on his heels, "fancy a picnic?"

He raised his eyebrows, a hopeful, open look in his eyes.

"Indoors, with all the proper precautions, of course."

Crowley snapped, and a tartan blanket appeared under his arm.

"Of course," Aziraphale said, with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles)
> 
> (I don't actually know if Julia Child has a recipe for pineapple upside down cake. The idea of Aziraphale knowing her tickled my fancy so I wrote it in, that's all.)


End file.
